


a fair crack of the whip

by grimdarkfandango, Ponderosa (ponderosa121)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Humor, M/M, Masochist Crowley (Good Omens), Oops, Porn with Feelings, Praise Kink, Restraints, Rope Bondage, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Whipping, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:21:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimdarkfandango/pseuds/grimdarkfandango, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderosa121/pseuds/Ponderosa
Summary: “You know I’ll happily sleep with you again in a heartbeat, but I’ve known you for six-thousand years, angel, and you couldn’t top a Christmas Tree.”Aziraphale didn’t entirely disagree. He’d always fancied himself an accomplished lover capable of great feats of passion, but he had never toyed with the concept of pain equalling pleasure. It was only later that it dawned on Aziraphale that Crowley hadn’t been slinging a casual barb about his lack of ability, but truly thought him incapable of the task. The nerve!AKA the one where Aziraphale accidentally interrupts Crowley's session with a dom and tries Very Hard to make it up to him.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 84
Kudos: 440
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme, Hot Omens, Ixnael’s Recommendations, kashiichan's favourites





	a fair crack of the whip

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [GO Kink Meme prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/616.html?thread=895080): Aziraphale knows what BDSM is, conceptually, but it hasn't prepared him for the realization that Crowley is apparently a masochist who likes being tied up and hit/flogged/whipped -- and it definitely hasn't prepared him to be horribly, mortifyingly turned-on by seeing Crowley's bruises and rope-marks and welts and visibly raging erection.

Aziraphale rapped on the door of Crowley’s flat and waited. Coming over to visit Crowley rather than Crowley appearing at the bookshop was still a rather new feature of their arrangement, but now that they were no longer having to hide their fraternizing from their employers Aziraphale had begun to enjoy the freedom to pop over whenever he felt like it. Crowley had even ceased to object after the third or fourth time.

He frowned at the closed door, and politely knocked again. The Bentley was outside, so Crowley was surely home. He stretched his metaphorical ears. What could possibly be going on for Crowley to leave him waiting on the stoop? He was about to knock a third time when he picked up a sudden wash of bright, sparking pain radiating from inside the flat.

The front door found itself less of a physical barrier and more a vague concept as Aziraphale passed straight through where it had once stood. He stood wild-eyed in the cavernous lounge, searching for the origin of the fog-cloud of pain choking the air in the flat. A yelping scream drew his attention to an unfamiliar door that considerately popped open as soon as he stormed towards it.

Awash in muddied feelings, Aziraphale’s skin prickled and lungs filled with heat, as if he were standing amidst the smoke of a raging fire. He burst through the door, radiant energy enveloping him as he advanced on the two figures he could just make out past his own blazing light. Aziraphale felt some of his divine nature slip to the forefront as he bellowed, tapping into _the voice_ in his panic.

**“LEAVE. HIM. ALONE.”**

There was a scream and one of the figures collapsed to the ground, desperately scrambling away from the light as Aziraphale loomed large. The second figure, restrained, arched away from the light and let out a yelp.

“Aziraphale! Fuck’s sake, shut that off!”

Aziraphale sighed in relief, letting go of the power drawn around him as he rushed to where Crowley was suspended from the ceiling in a pair of manacles.

“Oh Crowley, thank goodness you’re alright, I was so worried I thought-- I mean I felt-- ah. Um.”

He stopped with a hand outstretched before snapping it back to his chest. He blinked and glanced around--at anywhere and anything _but_ Crowley--taking in the contents of a room he definitely hadn’t seen exist in this flat before.

It was entirely done up in crimson: a painted concrete floor and high walls covered with plush, tactile flocked wallpaper (the pattern if one looked closely was unspeakably obscene). The bed taking up one side of the room was equally plush, and there were two spacious tables and an open chest covered in tools and implements that only sped up the blush overtaking Aziraphale’s face. Crowley’s arms stretched over his head, locked into thick iron manacles strung up with chains to the ceiling at such a height that his toes could just barely touch the cold floor below. He was also completely naked and from Aziraphale’s vantage point, he could see the thick red welts painting Crowley’s back, and the sturdy leather belt that had caused them abandoned on the floor.

“Well angel, that was some entrance.” He sighed and rolled his head back. The leather blindfold over his face slipped just enough for one slit-pupil eye to show bright beneath the black. He squinted at the door behind Aziraphale then shook his head to loosen the blindfold further and let it fall to the floor. “I don’t think he’ll be coming back any time soon. Pity, I liked that one, had a good strong arm. May as well let me loose then, key’s on the table if you don’t mind.”

Aziraphale fumbled for the key. Even as he stretched up to undo the manacles, his gaze kept sneaking back to the bright red of Crowley’s back. That must hurt.

He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until Crowley was rubbing his wrists with a soft hiss and a wry, “That’s kind of the point.”

“Yes, I understand, but I-- Um, nevermind. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I’m sorry your…,” Aziraphale looked upwards and chose his words delicately, “your _friend_ ran off.”

“Well, maybe you can make it up to me,” Crowley said, and glanced down to where Aziraphale was clutching the key with both hands before him. Crowley plucked it out of his grasp before it crumpled beneath the force. “There’s a new Bond film out next week. Wouldn’t mind some company.”

“Oh, for a moment I thought you meant with….” Aziraphale gestured at the room and all of its assorted implements.

Crowley shimmied into his trousers. “You know I’ll happily sleep with you again in a heartbeat, but I’ve known you for six-thousand years, angel, and you couldn’t top a Christmas Tree.”

Aziraphale didn’t entirely disagree. He’d always fancied himself an accomplished lover capable of great feats of passion, but he had never toyed with the concept of pain equalling pleasure. 

Since he was already there and Crowley was no longer _busy_ , they ducked out for an early dinner and a cinema showing of something Crowley insisted Aziraphale would love--an amuse bouche for next week’s spy thriller. (Thriller was not a term Aziraphale would chose to use for any film in the franchise.) Sprawled in the chair as he was, nobody in the restaurant would have imagined that only an hour earlier Crowley had been on the receiving end of some rather enthusiastic punishment, but Aziraphale watched carefully how he stretched and could tell from the occasional clench along the sharp sweep of his jawline and sibilant hiss when he shifted in certain directions that Crowley hadn’t done a thing to miracle away the injuries he’d sustained. When Crowley reached to pay the cheque Aziraphale could just see the rough red marks left by the manacles, and felt himself grow warm under his collar.

What on earth could be the appeal in suffering? It went counter to everything he believed about enjoyment in these human forms. They were so made for love and pleasure! How irksome that there could be something about pleasure he didn’t fathom, and he further didn’t understand why he couldn’t drag his attention away from cataloguing every miniscule way Crowley betrayed the ongoing pricks of pain he experienced. The thought of his dear friend hurting should disturb him, not-- The heat creeping up the back of Aziraphale’s neck threatened to flood into his cheeks and his grip on his napkin tightened until it subsided.

It was only later, well after they had parted ways (and with absolutely no memory of what the film had been about), that it dawned on Aziraphale that Crowley hadn’t been slinging a casual barb about his lack of ability, but truly thought him incapable of the task.

The nerve! He’d been a Knight and commanded men in battle (minor skirmishes really) and done quite a bit of menacing (at a maximum terror factor of two on a scale of ten) on Crowley’s behalf. He was the angel of the Eastern Gate for Heaven’s sake (never mind how that had turned out).

How difficult could raising a few welts and smacking a bottom possibly be?

*

When in doubt, there was only one place Aziraphale truly trusted to turn. After digging through his own book collection he had a tidy stack of classic erotic literature, though little of it touched directly on the topic he was interested in until he thought to dig further for some of the more heretical libertine texts. He may not have been in Paris long, but of course he’d had to pick up a few volumes before he ducked out of that whole mess.

Frustrated, he slammed another cover closed and set the book aside. While interesting treatises on human nature, they didn’t really do much to illuminate the obviously pleasurable side of the whole situation. If he was going to learn how to provide such an experience, he was in need of something more up-to-date, modern, and educational. Luckily for him, he lived in Soho.

The shop next door to A.Z. Fell & Co. had been many things over the decades, but for at least the last twenty years it had been in the singular trade of pleasure accessories. Aziraphale was on friendly enough terms with the current owner, having had several conversations over the years about the state of the neighbourhood and the other more fleeting businesses surrounding them. This was, however, the first time Aziraphale had actually been inside _Forbidden Fruit_.

The door swung closed behind Aziraphale with a gentle jingle, and he tried not to peer too curiously around the shop interior. It was surprisingly well-lit considering the blackened and frosted windows warding off prying eyes, and the gentleman behind the counter greeted Aziraphale cheerfully, flicking closed his newspaper.

“Mr. Fell! How nice to see you, how have you been?”

“Julius, lovely to see you! I’ve been very well thank you, and yourself? Business been good?”

“People always need things to do of a weekend, and we’ve been doing some good business online lately. You should try selling some of your books online if you haven’t already, bet you’d get a lot of interest.”

“You know, a friend has been telling me just the same thing, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I much prefer to get a feel for the customer, look them in the eye and know that they’re truly going to appreciate the merchandise before I let them off with it.”

“I know just what you mean Mr. Fell, there’s nothing quite like personally tailoring a sale to a customer. Speaking of, is there something I can help you with today, or is this a social visit?”

“Actually I was rather hoping you could assist me with some research materials. I’ve recently discovered someone close to me quite enjoys, well, a bit of bondage and the experience of pain. I’m just struggling to understand how that translates into such pleasure.”

Julius’ eyebrow quirked up and he leaned his bearded chin on a hand, casting an appraising eye over Aziraphale. “And you’re interested in trying this out for yourself, or…?”

“Oh Heavens no I can’t imagine that for myself at all, much more fond of comfort. Actually I was, ah, rather more interested in _delivering_ it, as it were.”

Julius’ other eyebrow shot up to join the first, and he leaned back off his stool. “Well I do believe I can introduce you to some materials that might help…illuminate things for you. Right this way, Mr. Fell.”

*

Aziraphale had never taken to research lightly, and within a span of six months he felt he’d gained a fairly good handle (insert a slow and knowing wink here) on the various tools of the trade and at least marginal insight into Crowley’s perspective.

However, it hardly prepared him for freshly catching sight of the hint of bruises and a scatter of tender marks on Crowley’s fair skin. Again, he found he couldn’t look away from the chafing at Crowley’s wrists which summoned to mind the vision of the demon in that hidden room of his, arms stretched above him and muscles pulled taut over the ladder of his ribs. Of the redness scattered along his back and scratched low on his belly, just above the very visible proof of his pleasure.

Aziraphale swallowed hastily. “Found a new partner, I see,” he mentioned casually as he tossed a bit of seed into the water for the ducks.

Crowley tugged at the cuff of his shirt and shifted his weight from one hip to the other. He made a noncommittal sound.

“Not as good as the last one, I take it. I still feel terribly about that whole misunderstanding.” Aziraphale dusted his fingers off and laced them together. He stole glances at Crowley and tested a few phrases out in his head. Normally he’d be excited to share a bit of new knowledge with his former adversary and now sometimes lover, but broaching the subject proved difficult. If Crowley was happy with his new partner, surely that meant Aziraphale would be free to spend more time...researching. Maybe in a decade or two he’d have mastered the art--

“Oh just spit it out, angel,” Crowley snapped.

“Sorry?”

“Whatever it is you want to assssk me.”

Aziraphale’s lips pressed together stubbornly. “I just thought that perhaps, if you weren’t _entirely_ satisfied with their conduct, that I might be able to lend a hand,” he ventured. He very boldly held up said hand and gave Crowley a light and playful swat on the arm. “I’ve been doing quite a bit of reading on the subject since the incident.”

“Oh, don’t call it an incident. You’ll make it into a Thing.”

“Fine, but I frightened that poor fellow half to death!” Aziraphale said plaintively. He still felt quite guilty over that, even after arranging for the young man to win a sizable sum in the lottery. He shooed away the lingering guilt and hastened to point out: “However that only goes to prove that I have it in me to be very imposing when the situation calls for it.”

Crowey continued to look unconvinced. The corners of his mouth tugged towards a frown.

Since logic had failed, Aziraphale resorted to cajoling, a tactic he employed on rare occasions. It was extremely effective, but generally Crowley gave in to whatever he wanted with very little need for persuasion. “Let me give it a go, Crowley! At least once,” Aziraphale said. He turned to him and clutched at his sleeve. “A fair crack of the whip, if you please.”

The tiniest bit of red stained the tips of Crowley’s ears. “Ugh. _Fine._ ”

Aziraphale positively glowed. “I won’t disappoint you.”

“You’d better not,” Crowley snarled, but in the tone that always secretly meant: You never could, angel.

*

Crowley scowled into the mirror and went to check on the dungeon. It was convenient being able to rearrange his flat whenever he needed it, and the dungeon only bothered existing when he felt like it was useful.

Such as today, when Aziraphale was due over for his _appointment_. It had been two weeks since they agreed to give it a shot and Aziraphale had been insufferable the whole time, unable to keep his eyes to himself whenever they were together and practically telegraphing his thoughts every time Crowley moved. Or didn’t move. Or thought about moving. He’d had to ban him from the flat for the last week just to get any peace.

It was worse than when he got excited about his bloody magic tricks! Once he fixated on trying something, especially something “human”, he was insufferable until he satisfied his curiosity.

Crowley glared at the manacles hanging from the ceiling, which rattled excitedly in response.

“Oh don’t you start too.”

A cheery knock on the door led Crowley back out into the entranceway, spot on three p.m. as agreed. He flung the door open to a rosy-faced Aziraphale, already half-giddy by the looks of him.

“Been standing out here long then?” Crowley waved him in and sauntered into the lounge to perch on the arm of the couch, evaluating the bottle of wine Aziraphale had brought over out of habit.

“We agreed to a certain time so I am on time my dear, that’s how agreements _work_. Surely you must be acquainted with following at least some rules during these escapades?”

“Sure, angel, but those are _my_ rules. Let’s just get started before we get stuck in an argument about semantics and never get to the fun bit.”

If Crowley had expectations on just how this would go he certainly wasn’t going to share them with Aziraphale. Trying to tell Aziraphale he was going to be bad at something was impossible, but he’d never seen him so much as swat a fly and certainly wasn’t confident he’d be able to perform to the standard Crowley was used to in this arena.

Better to get things started and over with quickly. Once he’d failed, Aziraphale could sulk for a few weeks, and then they could forget about the whole ordeal. Crowley pushed off the couch and dropped the bottle on the sideboard, anticipating they could have a good drink after.

“Whatever you do,” he said, leading the way into the dungeon, “don’t hold back. They never hit hard enough to start.”

This was, Crowley discovered, precisely the wrong thing to say.

*

The metal chair screeched as Dagon dragged it across the floor. They swung it around to take a seat and leaned an arm over the back. “So, you’ve been discorporated,” Dagon said, frowning. “You dummy.”

Crowley’s pulse raced. He was going to be in so much trouble.

This was nowhere near the first time Crowley had needed to sit through the Inhuman Resource department’s training video. It wasn’t even the first time he’d ended up here as part of a BDSM scene gone awry. It was however the first time he’d ever been smacked so hard he could still feel it in Hell and was desperate to get back for reasons other than Hell was simply a terrible place to hang about in. His bare knees banged against the underside of the just-a-bit-too-small school desk and he snarled in frustration.

“You’ve been automatically issued this new body, so don’t fuck it up. Please read (garbled noise) in front of you….” The old VHS recording skipped, mistiming the grand sweep of Dagon’s arm and the appearance of several reams of paper that were the terms of service. A leaky pen fell from the ceiling a half-second later and Crowley caught it in midair.

He thumbed frantically to the pages that needed to be initialled and signed. There was the possibility that someone was going to notice who just landed back here in need of a new body, but he honestly didn’t care. How was it even possible that the backs of his thighs were still stinging? He squirmed and looked at the clock even though it was broken and never moved past a quarter to three.

“...Hell may provide both parts and labor for your corporation if we deem it necessary, but when on assignment you are responsible for replacing certain parts yourself. If you find yourself in need of an eye, take one...”

Crowley breathed lightly through his mouth, shallow sips of air that were meant to help calm him, but instead just made his mind spin. He’d been wholly unprepared for Aziraphale to swan in, seal the door, and make the manacles stretch to twice their length to snap him up and haul him to his toes without so much as a by your leave. And then, the bright crackle of energy around him--the same one that’d caused the Incident (fuck it, it had become a Thing)--flaring white and the paddle just _appearing_ in the angel’s hand.

Fuck.

Ink splattered on the page, obscuring his mark, and Crowley bit his lip as he summoned the improper form to correct the error. He’d have to beg for _mercy_. Slink back in and plead for Aziraphale to hold back a little. A delicious shiver ran through him.

“...the replacement value of your new body will come out of your infernal wages...”

*

Aziraphale paced. It was a short circuit as the dungeon wasn’t particularly large, but Aziraphale had the skill of a lifetime worrier and could fit in approximately 73% more hand-wringing and tutting into the space than a regular person could hope to.

He hadn’t _meant_ to discorporate Crowley. He’d been a bit miffed at the obvious lack of confidence Crowley had in his skills and had maybe put on a little more of a show than he’d intended. Gotten a bit flashy, as it were.

The look on Crowley’s face in the split-second before his corporation disintegrated into ash had at least been the tiniest bit gratifying.

A whiff of brimstone and the slam of the front door brought Aziraphale out of his reverie and racing into the entryway, stumbling to a halt with a relieved sigh as Crowley walked in, still brushing dark soil out of his hair.

“Bloody Hell, angel.”

“I didn’t mean to! Well, I did, but I certainly didn’t intend the outcome. Oh you’d just been rubbing my buttons over this whole idea and frankly, you earned a proper good wallop for your terrible behavior.”

Aziraphale sniffed, wrinkling his nose a little at the trace smell of Hell still lingering in the air.

Crowley slunk closer, eyes still fully snaked in gold and an expression Aziraphale was unfamiliar with on his face. He took a half-step back as Crowley leaned in to hiss: “I did deserve that, didn’t I? I’ve been just terrible. Sssso very bad. Maybe I need a bit more punishment just to, ah, make sure I remember that?”

“You want me to do that again?”

“Just hold back a little, don’t--fuck, angel do you have any idea how hot that was? I’ve never had to worry about _actually_ being overpowered before. Danger as an aphrodisiac and all that.”

He watched Crowley’s tongue dart out, wetting his lips as a blush slithered up his neck. The longer he stared at the shape of Crowley’s mouth, the more an answering heat gathered low in his belly.

“Please, Aziraphale. Anything you’d like. Just...be merciful.”

Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s chin with a gentle hand.

“My dear, you forget that I am a Principality. I am _made_ of mercy.”

*

The video cassette slotted in with a click. Metal chair legs screeched. Dagon frowned. “So, you’ve been discorporated. You dummy.”

Crowley spat curses and kicked at the nearby desks and _squirmed_.

*

“Okay, angel,” Crowley said, reappearing measurably more quickly this time. Aziraphale noted that his breathing was laboured, and there was a great deal more subterranean detritus on his person. Crowley’s throat jumped as his dirt-covered hands clawed at the front of the very handsome get-up Aziraphale had donned for the occasion and a full-body shiver ran through Crowley’s narrow frame. “Just a _bit_ more mercy, a touch more holding back.”

“You were supposed to safeword, Crowley!” Aziraphale protested, dusting off the filth Crowley left on his leather waistcoat before proceeding to drag him back towards the dungeon. How were they supposed to make this work when one of them kept breaking all the rules! Granted, since creation itself Crowley had never been good at following rules in the first place, so he’s not entirely sure what he ought to have expected, but it certainly wasn’t turning his most cherished friend and lover into ash twice in one day.

“Safewords are for humans,” Crowley scoffed, shedding his clothes bit by bit and leaving a trail of black strewn behind him.

“They’re also for impertinent demons who are going to get the opposite of funishment if they don’t promise right here and now to use them when needed.”

Crowley presented his arms to the manacles that reached for him. The chains hovered, waiting politely on Aziraphale’s go ahead--at least something in this room was willing to be Good--and Crowley’s eyes rolled upwards halfway to Heaven when Aziraphale threatened to set down the whip and call it a day. “Fine, I promise. _Pamplemoussssse_ if things get too smitey, angel.”

Pamplemousse, really. It continued to vex him that Crowley had chosen a word in French given that the demon knew full well his pronunciation had only slipped further over the centuries. “Thank you, but use my title please, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, and with a flick of his hand the manacles clamped down on Crowley’s wrists hungrily and ratcheted back into the ceiling.

Crowley gasped as his shoulders wrenched up and toes were left scrabbling, but he didn’t respond. Conveniently, Aziraphale was a patient being (a majority of the time) and he was positive that he could outwait Crowley by a factor of a few hundred years. He wasn’t the one who sought out a nap the moment things got a bit dull, after all.

It in fact took only a few minutes for Crowley to cave, and Aziraphale did his level best not to appear smug when Crowley’s lip curled back to name him.

Letting his wings out, Aziraphale came around to face him. “Again please, darling,” he said, taking Crowley’s face in his palm. Being smacked around was nothing to Crowley, he knew. Enjoyable surely, in that way that Aziraphale still couldn’t quite fathom, but something the demon could take to like breathing. But this--being wholly captive to Aziraphale’s attention--was difficult for Crowley in ways Aziraphale was only beginning to understand.

How many centuries had Crowley gazed upon _him_ without trying to look away. Always it had been he who could only bear to look upon Crowley for brief seconds, and now…. It took a great deal longer before Crowley’s gaze stopped trying to escape and settled, welcoming Aziraphale to witness his pupils shift wide to thin, to grow ever calmer and more still. The muscles bunched at his shoulders eased and gave him a touch more purchase on the floor. Crowley hung there and gazed back at him in surrender and Aziraphale looked upon him with all his focus, all his many eyes. 

“Once more,” Aziraphale commanded quietly. The stench of Hell burned away beneath his gaze.

“Principality,” Crowley said, and strained into Aziraphale’s touch so beautifully that it hurt to withdraw.

Reluctantly Aziraphale turned away. He let the whip unfurl, glimmering white and slithering along at his side as he went to fetch the little apple he’d summoned. He palmed it and turned back to Crowley with it hidden behind his back. “Crowley, dear, if you’d be so good as to open your mouth,” he said. “I have a little game for us to try this go round.”

“Sssseems I’m up a little too high for you to put something useful in my filthy mouth,” Crowley said, eyes sliding down Aziraphale’s body. He smirked.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Aziraphale replied, but with a gesture the chains dropped, leaving Crowley stumbling and losing his footing. He hung from his wrists for a moment and Aziraphale timed it to pull him back to straining the moment he looked to be getting his feet back under him. “It’s something round...and red….”

“Oooh, have I been bad enough you need to gag me? Are you going to make me scream so loud it’s the only way to shut me up?”

“Not quite, my dear,” Aziraphale said. He fairly bounced on his toes, he was so very excited.

Crowley’s face twisted in confusion. He grew so distracted by the puzzle his body had clearly ceased to bother sending signals of pain along his nerves, and he simply twisted idly from the ceiling. “Then what is it?”

“It’s an apple!” Aziraphale said, producing it with aplomb.

“An apple,” Crowley echoed, with rather a lot less enthusiasm than Aziraphale had been hoping for.

“Yes, an apple. See! And a very delicious one, I can attest. One of my favorite varieties in matter of fact. It’s from a tree I found over in this lovely little garden down--” Aziraphale held it up in front of Crowley for him to better examine it, and trailed off when he noted the distinctly uninterested look in Crowley’s eye. “Well, um, nevermind where it comes from, and I know it’s a bit sentimental of me to bring an apple of all things into our session, but--open your mouth now please, darling--after that last Incident I spent the hour awaiting your return giving this a good think and I suspect that it might be helpful!”

“Helpful how?” Crowley asked dubiously, as Aziraphale carefully nudged the small apple past his lips. “Guhh gaitt gnnnackk, ggngll?”

“Well, you’re going to hold it very gently between your teeth for me. Yes, just like that. No biting. And if you falter and break the skin, my love,” Aziraphale explained, stepping away and giving the whip a little test flick that hissed through the air and cracked very nicely, “the punishment stops.”

Incandescent flame poured down the length of the whip and Aziraphale was pleased to note the lustful quiver it elicited in Crowley’s limbs.

“Shall we begin?” he asked, and the low moan that purred in Crowley’s chest was a most enthusiastic yes.

Aziraphale measured his swings with much more precision, delivering three lashes each harder than the last before the apple crunched and fell to the floor with a bite carved from its flesh. “Fuck, I’m sorry, ange—Principality. Don’t stop,” Crowley pleaded. He spat the bite of the apple out, uneaten, but Aziraphale could see the traces of its sweet juice lingering on Crowley’s lip.

He ought not be so keen on the welts laid in stinging red lines across Crowley’s back, the edges singed black from divine flame. Yet beyond the fresh sizzle of pain Aziraphale could now recognize the distress leaking into the air as distress that he might stop. He summoned a fresh apple and a bit of imagination to cram it into Crowley’s mouth with far less care, a gesture that made Crowley strain and groan and leak even more profusely from the tip of his hard prick. “My mercy extends only so far, you foul creature!”

The muffled response was less enthusiastic than the cramming and Aziraphale knew Crowley was not as impressed with his acting skills as his whip handling. He pursed his lips and gestured with the whip. “Fine, no more theatrics, for now. If you can hold this one for more than three lashes, Crowley you’ll have earned a reward.”

That got an “I promise I won’t be bad” mumble of gutteral sounds and Aziraphale deliberately struck harder in the next swing, a crack striking the curve of Crowley’s left buttock. On the next swing he placed a matching welt on the other. He slid the length of the whip between his hands thoughtfully and drew near to survey the damage with the tip of a finger. He might risk laying a stripe deeper still and leave Crowley sitting with a bit of holy (or was it unholy?) pain for a week or more. How thrilling would that be, to see Crowley so discomfited by the kiss of his whip. The thought of hurting him so effectively that he wouldn’t be able to move an inch without thinking of Aziraphale was so very tempting.

Crowley’s teeth suddenly pierced the skin of the apple and crunched into its flesh.

“Fuck.” He spat out the apple and panted heavily as it tumbled to the floor and rolled away. “Again, please, I’m so sorry I failed. Hard as you like, I’ll take it. Hell, yes, I just-- Please give me another chance, Principality.“

“You could feel me,” Aziraphale said, mortified. Oh, of course Crowley would pick up on the fact that he was tempted towards the idea of inflicting pain on another being, just as he could reach out with his angelic senses and feel when a soul called out in distress. But surely it wouldn’t count when he was only doing the hurting because it was precisely what Crowley wanted? He blew out a soft breath. Therein awaited a great deal of slightly tipsy back room philosophizing. “You could um, feel my desire, as it were.”

“I could,” Crowley moaned. The muscles in his legs were beyond fatigued, and Aziraphale resisted the urge to lower the chains a bit to offer relief. He grinned rather toothily, arms flexing as he eased the strain with his grip. “Angel, you’re so fucking hot when you’re conflicted.”

“Am I?” Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he ought to preen at the idea of Crowley finding him so irresistibly attractive for rather the wrong reasons. When he spotted the devious gleam in Crowley’s eye, he blushed and glanced away. “You, devil…. Can’t you go five minutes without causing mischief?”

“Let’s find out. One more chance, please,” Crowley said, and opened his mouth wide and waiting.

“This is your final chance, you wily serpent,” Aziraphale warned, and produced another apple. A bit larger than the others, Crowley would have to try harder still to bite it gently enough to keep from dropping it or breaking its gleaming red skin. “And since you failed at two lashes, you’ll need to hold it for two extra. That’s five this time.”

“Hgg kuunn knnnht!”

“For the moment,” Aziraphale agreed, and moved back a half dozen paces. “But by the time I’m done with you this time, dear, you might not be able to do.”

“Fgggkkk.”

Flames consumed the whip again and Aziraphale let it crack in the air twice without touching flesh before laying in with a miraculous ability to strike precisely where he intended. He’d ceased to wince at the high yelps and guttural grunts that Crowley choked on, and had learned instead to anticipate them. Crowley failed on the fourth increasingly hard lash, a side strike that landed with such power that Aziraphale nearly feared it might be another hour waiting for Crowley to return in a fresh corporation.

But he hadn’t reduced Crowley to ash again, simply left a blackened and smoking cut across the width of his back beneath the sharp jut of his shoulder blades.

“Fuck! Fuckfuckfuck,” Crowley spat and howled and twisted against the bonds. His fingers curled to claws around the chains and he thrashed, less with pain-sparked pleasure and more with genuine anguish that spread like a sourness through the room. “I’m sorry. I fucked up. Aziraphale, I’m so very sorry. I should’ve been able to--”

Aziraphale tossed the whip aside and hastened to him. “Ssssh,” he said, and let the chains drop Crowley directly into his arms. He held Crowley upright until a bit of strength returned to his legs. “It’s fine, love. You did so well, Crowley.”

“I bit it, Principality. I bit the apple,” Crowley stammered. His limbs were a near dead weight, dangling as Aziraphale supported him. “You gave it to me. I was supposed to keep it safe.”

It felt perhaps even more blasphemous to have Crowley call him by his title now.

“You did precisely as you were meant to, Crowley,” Aziraphale assured him, and the rippling anxiety began to fade. The manacles slipped to the floor as he eased a shoulder under Crowley’s arm and helped him walk towards the bed. Gently, he asked, “Do you want to try one last time?”

“Yes,” Crowley said, and he leaned all his weight against Aziraphale. “Please grant me one last try.”

It was nice, shouldering a burden that wasn’t a burden at all. For Crowley to simply and quietly rely on him.

“On your knees then, if you don’t mind,” he said, and left Crowley kneeling at the edge of the bed, his arms stretching out across the mattress for a bit of support. There was tension written between the marks crossing his back, and Aziraphale hovered at the table, trying to decipher what kind of pain Crowley truly needed from him.

Perhaps it was something more cutting than a whip. “One last try,” he said, making his choice and returning with a simple riding crop. He summoned another bit of fruit; the sweet smell of it ripe for the eating rose above the sharper more metallic scents floating in the dungeon air. Briefly, Aziraphale pressed the pear against his own lips and savored the idea of biting into its soft flesh. “Ready?”

Crowley’s head hung for a moment, then he settled a bit, readying himself with his mouth parted and his shoulders rolling back.

When he felt not an apple but a far more delicate pear at his lips, he flinched and nearly faltered. But he drew in a breath and closed his eyes, allowing Aziraphale to put him to a final, but almost impossible task. Wielding only a crop, it’d be more sound than pain that would inevitably send juice spilling down Crowley’s chin and leave him an absolutely mess just begging for a kiss to lick it away.

Aziraphale found he very much looked forward to Crowley failing.

*

Long minutes later (or hours perhaps, maybe even a stretch of days--keeping track of the time in a windowless room hadn’t been front of mind for either of them) Aziraphale carefully got them situated on the bed, gently laying Crowley on his front across his own lap as he sat leaning against the plush headboard. A pillow slipped under Crowley’s head let Aziraphale ensure he could see his face, wiping away streaks of tears as Crowley gasped and sobbed, slowly regaining his composure.

Several minutes passed with Aziraphale quietly whispering a steady stream of reassurance to Crowley, soft hands skating along trembling shoulder muscles and down to massage out the tightness in his legs, carefully circumventing the raw streaks painted across his flesh. If he tried, he could feel the overlaying hurts that Crowley suffered, and beneath that, the strange twist of pleasure. Eventually, Crowley’s breathing evened out and he began shifting uncomfortably under Aziraphale’s gentle ministrations.

“Are you ready for something else now, my dear?”

Crowley’s side-eye was somewhat counteracted by their red-rimmed state and his face inelegantly smushed into the pillow. He filled his lungs on a deep breath and let it free in a huff.

“Sure angel, anything you like.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips and delivered a firm pinch to Crowley’s left cheek, garnering a yelp.

“That’s still _Principality_ , thank you dear. Do you remember your word?”

Crowley seemed less dismissive than last time as he muttered “Yes, Principality”, a benefit Aziraphale hoped of having seen exactly what he was capable of now. He traced his fingers along the ridge of Crowley’s shoulderblade and down along the long stretch of muscle towards the divots at the low of his back. Shivers seized Crowley’s skin in the wake of his touch, tiny twitching reminders of the wounds striped there.

“Very good, my darling. I know it was terribly rude of me to set you up to fail on our last game, and more than once, but you performed admirably in your tasks, Crowley, and the failure of course was a reward entirely meant for me,” Aziraphale said. He stroked his thumb over the stickiness still left on Crowley’s chin from the juice and licked his lip, remembering how sweetly that kiss had tasted. A lightning quick smack halted the progress of Crowley’s hand attempting to snake up the inside of Aziraphale’s thigh while he talked. “We’re going to try one more little game, you impatient demon, and if you’re very good you’ll win a prize. Does that sound alright?”

“Yes! Yes, fine, can we start already?”

He gave Crowley’s second attempt at groping a harder smack. “Handsy _and_ impatient!” he amended. “We’ll have to see what we can do about that.”

Aziraphale reconsidered his approach as he ran a fingertip lightly across the blackened stripe laid across Crowley’s side like an arrow shaft, measuring the flinch and hiss from his lapful of writhing, aroused demon. It was undeniably intoxicating being able to elicit such responses from Crowley, who usually worked so hard to conceal his genuine feelings even from Aziraphale. Crowley only did what Crowley wanted to do, except here he was handing over the remote control as it were, letting Aziraphale work the volume and channel as he saw fit.

A whimpering sound broke Aziraphale’s reverie, Crowley lying very still but panting lightly despite the negligible amount of contact betwixt them.

“Oh dear, I was doing it again wasn’t I?” Aziraphale murmured, and under his renewed attention, saw Crowley’s hips shift and wriggle, begging for a bit more stimulation. Well, he might have gotten it if he had kept his naughty hands to himself. Now he’d simply have to wait.

He told Crowley as much and ignored the terribly ill-mannered groan that burst into the air. Aziraphale made a quick sweep down Crowley’s arms and pulled his hands to press palm-to-palm, holding both of Crowley’s slim wrists in a single hand. “Do hold still my dear,” he said, a length of soft rope appearing in Aziraphale’s free hand. He began to loop it around Crowley’s wrists. “This will only take a moment.”

He wound the rope to cinch Crowley’s hands together, making careful knots in the lovely pattern he’d been studying for some time now. Traveling up Crowley’s arms to capture him from wrist to elbow, Aziraphale’s tidy knots were spaced impeccably despite not having been miracled into place. He could’ve just drawn the power down to make the ropes do all the work as he’d done with the manacles, but there was something satisfying about completing this small act in the traditional manner (even if his subject barely had any consideration for the fact he was meant to possess a human skeleton, not a serpent’s, and was peering back over his shoulder to watch the proceedings).

“Oh for fuck’s sake, ang--Principality--is that rope _tartan_?”

Aziraphale blithely ignored the outburst and continued to affix loops to Crowley’s ankles to effectively immobilize him. “I have other intentions, but I won’t hesitate to gag you if I need to.”

He gripped Crowley’s hips, shifting him to kneeling, though with no arms to support him, his chest still angled over Aziraphale’s thigh and his face remained pressed into the pillow. With firm hands he spread Crowley’s legs to give him better balance, pressing his thighs apart but avoiding both the red-raw welts across the backs of his legs and the newly re-interested erection that bobbed eagerly in the air.

Crowley arched his back like a cat, hissing as muscles stretched under the burn of the whip marks. He didn’t seem fussed that his arms were taut behind his back and he had to make do with only his chest and his knees to hold him. Though, Aziraphale supposed, Crowley _had_ spent a good number of years slithering around on his belly.

“You can’t do much at this angle, Principality. I can’t either. Am I in for a ssssspanking?”

“I can do precisely what I want to with you, and that my dear would be the point.”

Aziraphale made sure Crowley was watching as he carefully unknotted his bow tie, a rather handsome piece of sky blue silk. He slid it between his fingers and smoothed the wrinkles out of it before dangling it in front of Crowley’s nose.

“Now, you are going to be very, very good for me, and you are going to need to restrain yourself,” Aziraphale said with a smile. He knew full well that Crowley was going to have a terrible time trying to endure what he had planned, and didn’t try in the least to obscure the thought as he slid his arms around Crowley and lightly touched his cock to peel his foreskin back. “If you ruin my lovely new bow tie then you will not be receiving your reward.”

“Oh fuck, _fuck,_ Aziraphale--”

Aziraphale firmly knotted the silk around Crowley’s erection, unable to resist running knuckles over the encased length. He tied a careful bow and tugged it into shape, the flaring silk resting just beneath the head of Crowley’s cock.

“Shall we begin?”

A groan and a shiver was the only answer to come from the wiry frame bracketed over Aziraphale’s lap. Crowley was taut with anticipation, his focus needling into Aziraphale.

He stretched back, rolling his shoulders with a relieved sigh as he summoned his wings from the plane they normally resided in for the second time in this session. It always felt so very good to give them a stretch. A pity they weren’t outside under the sun, he thought idly, and above them the pendant lights hung from the ceiling glowed a bit brighter and a bit warmer.

He could see Crowley watching with a curious expression as he snapped his wings out to their full breadth, stretching his primaries out before curling his wings around to bracket them both. The soft filtering of light through his feathers somehow made the sight before him even more blasphemous, the demon spread and bound bearing the marks of his own violence. Crowley’s slender arms tight to his back in a reverse prayer. And yet, Aziraphale couldn’t help feeling proud of what he’d accomplished, and proud of the way Crowley had tried so hard to comply with his commands.

“My dear boy you are beautiful. What a gift to get to see you like this, what a blessing you have given me.”

“Boy?” Crowley muttered, needing to find fault in the cascade of compliments. He squirmed in obvious discomfort, but didn’t attempt to move off Aziraphale’s lap and so Aziraphale let the backtalk slide. Still, his breathing shifted the longer Aziraphale spoke, and Aziraphale could feel the thunder of his heartbeat where his thigh rested beneath Crowley’s chest.

“You’ve been so good for me throughout, petal. Twice you came back to me after I’d been too rough with you, and you did your very best with those apples. Can you be good for a while longer?” 

“M’not good. I failed-- I couldn’t hold them, Principality. None of them.”

The waver was back in his voice, face turning to burrow into the pillow and hide the very real shame that overtook him. Oh, this wouldn’t do at all. Aziraphale opened his heart to bathe Crowley with the soft warmth of his most genuine and ardent adoration.

“You did exactly as you were instructed my dear, and you did it so well. You’ve done everything I could have hoped for and more.”

Aziraphale plucked a stray feather from one of his wings and gently ran it down Crowley’s inner thigh, summoning another shiver from him.

“You’ve been so good from the moment we began. You know how much I cherish you, don’t you? You always show me new parts of the world, parts of myself even. I could never have imagined half the joy you’ve brought me across the years.”

The feather continued tracing lazily across Crowley’s skin, dipping into sensitive spots and running delicately along the edges of the welts criss-crossing his skin. Aziraphale leaned over carefully to chase the feather with soft kisses, his other hand slipping down to tangle in Crowley’s hair. He scratched gently at Crowley’s scalp, nails light as the stroke of the feather so that when he tugged sharply at the hair at Crowley’s crown he was treated to a startled hiss and a jerk as Crowley moaned and strained against the bonds.

“I still don’t entirely understand how you enjoy receiving pain my dear, but I do believe I’ve begun to understand why people so enjoy delivering it. You’re like a marvelous instrument waiting to sing beneath my touch,” he continued, his grip tight in Crowley’s hair as he flipped the feather around. He scratched words of endearment into Crowley’s skin with the quill tip. “To learn how best to do that is as much a gift as anything. To elicit such spirited responses from you...knowing you’ll wear these marks even when we’re apart… it’s positively intoxicating. Heady like the finest of wines.”

Crowley was shaking again and squirming as best he could within the ropes, moaning into the pillow as Aziraphale taunted him further with only a soft feather, an ongoing stream of words of love and encouragement, and wave upon wave of feeling, purposeful this time as he let Crowley experience just how much Aziraphale was enjoying having him bound at his mercy.

Time felt suspended within the embrace of Aziraphale’s wings, but it still didn’t take long for the litany of kindness and the kiss and scratch of the feather to become too much for Crowley. He bucked against nothingness, still wrapped in silk as he came untouched, crying out Aziraphale’s name.

He crumpled and Aziraphale withdrew his wings. He miracled away the ropes, letting Crowley sprawl inelegantly in his lap with a loud sob.

“There there love, you’ve done so well, so good.”

Crowley let Aziraphale manhandle him into a more comfortable position and gently rub feeling back into his wrists.

“I fucking have not,” Crowley spat, anguished. He clung to the front of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, his fingers clawing into the leather. “I failed again, I’m sorry, I’m sorry--”

“Shhh, you did no such thing my darling. You did so wonderfully for me, Crowley. Could you ever believe that I would let you to fail out of cruelty?” He cradled an arm around Crowley’s shoulders to hold him. “Look here, my love….”

Aziraphale removed the bow tie, careful of the sensitive skin beneath as he unwound it and lay it out to reveal the streaks of white painted across it.

“You never asked what your prize would be, but I do believe you’ve earned it.”

Crowley scrubbed at his face, hissing as Aziraphale took note of how very raw and vulnerable he’d been. He levered himself up onto an elbow, fighting back from the emotional overload to snarl, “If it’s an apple, I’m leaving.”

Aziraphale chose to respond with a smirk rather than a withering glare, and lifted the stained bow tie in his hands to hold it in front of Crowley who blushed and averted his gaze. When Aziraphale simply waited for him to look upon it again, Crowley’s attention slid back warily.

“Your reward…,” Aziraphale said, and blew gently on it, reminiscent of a day before the end of the world. Only this time, instead of the offending stain disappearing, the white streaks of come soaked into the fabric to create what he thought was a rather fetching marbled cloud-like design. 

“Your reward,” Aziraphale began again as he looped the silk back around his neck and tied it tidily. He tugged the ends and gave the knot a little pat. “Is knowing every time I wear this bow tie that I’ve been marked by you, just as surely as I’ll know you’ve been marked by me for some time to come.”

Crowley stared at him slack-jawed, his pupils narrowing to slivers.

Oh dear, maybe he had gotten a little carried away with this after all.

“Aziraphale, you absolute bastard. I’ve created a monster.”

Or perhaps not. Aziraphale chuckled merrily and dropped a kiss on Crowley’s forehead, miracling away the remainder of the mess as he pulled the blankets up around them, settling Crowley comfortably into his arms and refusing to hear any protest.

“That was quite a workout for both of us, wouldn’t you say? I don’t suppose you’d mind terribly if we nap a little? This bed is extraordinarily comfortable.” Aziraphale was more tired than he’d felt in centuries, but the little white lie was of course for Crowley’s benefit. Besides, he very much enjoyed watching Crowley nap.

Crowley sighed into Aziraphale’s shoulder, eyes already slipping closed. Slowly, his hand found its way up Aziraphale’s chest, fingers threading under the knot of Aziraphale’s bow tie.

“Whatever you’d like, angel.”

*

Three days later.

The radio in the hole-in-the-wall Persian restaurant sputtered and between one moment and the next Lizzo was addressing Crowley directly. **“BABY HOW YOU FEELIN’? PREPARE YOUR FINE ASS FOR SATAN’S MESSENGER, DEMON CROWLEY.”**

Crowley snatched the half-full bag of takeout from the counter before the order was finished and stalked out. He was hastily fishing his mobile out of his pocket to ring Aziraphale for backup when a shadow slinked around the corner and stopped directly in his path.

“A little worrrm told me that you’ve been downstairs,” said Flauros, Grand Duke of Hell. She glanced down at her claws, and the little black ears poking out of the top her hoodie flickered. Her eyes burned as she peered up at Crowley. “Discorpurrrrated. Twice.”

“And? I filled out the forms,” Crowley said, wondering where this was going. Slowly, he lowered his mobile. He supposed if Hell was going to send messengers, the only other demon walking the earth he could occasionally tolerate was the best he could hope for. “Come to take this body back to Hell?”

“Please. I don’t have time for that, I’ve got a cuddle party to go ruin.” Flauros dug a scroll out of her Zootopia backpack and thrust it towards Crowley. She drew in a deep breath and recited rather unenthusiastically: “On behalf of Satan’s Great Armies, who have definitely not lost the fight against Heaven, Demon Crowley, you are hereby awarded a special commendation in the field.”

Crowley nearly dropped the bag of take away. “A...special commendation?” Warily, he extended a hand to take the scroll. “What the fuck for?”

Her ears twitched. “For purrrrposefully holding the line on behalf of the armies of Hell and doing...battle with the Principality Aziraphale,” Flauros said, her burning eyes flickering down to the marks ringing Crowley’s wrist. Her fangs showed in a sly and knowing grin.

“Right. Battle.”

“Best get back to that fight, hm,” Flauros said, and flicked her paw in a dismissive wave. As she slunk off the way she came, she called out: “Always knew you were a bottom, Crowley.”

*

“The Dark Council believes that we’ve been...fighting one another?” Aziraphale said. He absently fed a piece of flatbread off his fingers to Crowley and tore off another nibble for himself. “That’s absurd.”

“Someone in Heaven is probably having a celessstial orgasm over the fact that you’ve smited a demon twice and they’re ‘winning’,” Crowley said, rolling onto his back too quickly and hissing as the movement aggravated still-healing whipmarks. He flung a leg over the back of Aziraphale’s couch (a wonderfully comfortable bit of furniture in Aziraphale’s estimation, and a little too disgustingly comfortable in Crowley’s) and waved a dismissive hand. “Maybe you’ll get one too.”

Aziraphale was aghast. “I certainly hope not. I don’t want my job back!”

“Surely you enjoy thwarting me?”

“I’d say I’m doing a fine job of thwarting you freelance, thank you very much.” Another piece of flatbread made its way to Crowley, who chewed absently. “I’d prefer not to have to anticipate Gabriel popping in for a visit, especially if he decided to come and witness the, ah, _thwarting_ personally.”

Chewing turned to coughing as Crowley managed to choke on the bite of bread, sliding further down the couch as Aziraphale looked on with concern.

“Someone’s sake Aziraphale, don’t put that vision in my head! Next time we’ll have to sprinkle anti-asshole wards around the block or I’ll never be able to get in the mood. Maybe the whole city, just to be safe. Country?”

“You’re the one who brought it up!” Aziraphale continued picking at the remains of his food, conspicuously looking anywhere but at Crowley’s near-constant squirming to find a comfortable manner in which to sprawl. “Does that mean you’d be interested in, um, doing this again with me?”

Crowley twisted, slinking up over the arm of the couch to lean over where Aziraphale sat in his chair, hissing again at the burn of the stretch along his back and legs. “Angel, as soon as these heal I’m going to be begging you for another round.”

Hastily Aziraphale wet his lips (if there was a slight flash of pink tongue to tempt Crowley it was entirely on accident) and cleared up the remaining crumbs before gently placing his plate on the coffee table. “And I suppose until then your wiles will just have to go…un-thwarted?”

Crowley quirked an eyebrow and purred. He pushed his glasses down with a single finger and his gaze slide molten up Aziraphale’s body. “Why Aziraphale, it sounds almost as if you’d like me to tempt-- ah, err-- fffffgn--” He stammered to a halt as he finally noticed what he’d missed in all his distraction over commendations and demonic visitations.

“You’re wearing the bow tie.”

The perfectly-schooled look of innocence on Aziraphale’s face couldn’t quite hide the flicker of a smirk on his lips. “Oh really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Ngk.”

Aziraphale took the opportunity while Crowley’s brain was rebooting to scoot to the edge of his seat and catch hold of Crowley’s arm dangling outstretched towards him. He slid warm fingers across the dusky red marks ringing Crowley’s wrist. “I’d definitely noticed these, however.”

Crowley swallowed and shifted his weight to one arm, letting Aziraphale raise his hand to trace the full circuit of partially-healed chafing, pressing a firm thumb against the bruising colouring the knot of bone at his wrist. Crowley sucked in a hissing breath through his teeth and Aziraphale was delighted to note that he remained as still as he could under Aziraphale’s inspection.

Did Crowley think he hadn’t noticed the way the crafty old serpent had spent the last couple of days wandering around his bookshop finding excuses to do things in order to flash the odd bruise or aggravate some sore spot? Or that Aziraphale hadn’t been encouraging him to do so? He kept more than one ladder about, he’d hardly needed to keep asking if Crowley might fetch books off high shelves for any reason other than to peek at the marks at the low of his back when he went to his toes to reach for them.

“I noticed some other things as well,” Aziraphale continued, rising to push Crowley back into the embrace of the couch and lifting the hem of Crowley’s soft tee as Crowley eagerly tossed his glasses aside and wriggled out of his waistcoat. He tutted under his breath as he stripped Crowley’s shirt up and off. “Look at all those nasty bruises I’ve left you with….”

“Planning to kiss them better?”

“I think I might,” Aziraphale said, leaning down to drop a line of gentle kisses over the scatter of freckles on his shoulder. In the wake of his lips, the few yellowing marks lingering there faded a touch. “If only to hasten the opportunity to raise them anew.”

Crowley moaned, not unenthusiastically. His hips rose and fell like an obscene tide as he kicked off his boots and stretched to pull of his socks and fling them somewhere inconvenient. “Fuck. I did create a monster.” 

“Oh, you love it, you naughty devil,” Aziraphale accused playfully as he set about liberating Crowley from his trousers. “You love every bit of it.”

"I love _you_ , you daft angel."

Time didn't quite stop, but it did seem to hold its breath for a beat as Aziraphale gazed down upon Crowley, whose face was shifting through gears faster than the Bentley could ever hope to. His expression eventually settled on desperate panic, burning sulfur eyes unblinking and wide. After a beat, Crowley winced, nose wrinkling and teeth bared. "Don't suppose you'd like to ignore that I’ve said that and get on with the sex plan?"

Aziraphale leaned forward, capturing Crowley's face in his hands. He nudged his lips lightly against Crowley’s, ushering away the grimace with a soft kiss that slowly turned firm, leaving no room for doubts or anxious backpedaling. He kept close hold of Crowley, leaning forehead-to-forehead as he gave his beloved demon a moment to relax and re-open those wide golden eyes.

He slid his hands down to brace Crowley’s shoulders and beamed a smile at him that said of course, the feeling was mutual and had been for long ages. "If you think that declarations of love are likely to stop me wanting to ravish you, you're a much sillier demon than I thought."

Releasing the breath he didn’t seem to realize he’d been holding, the last of Crowley’s discomfiture fled and his fingers slipped under the knot of the bow tie, pulling Aziraphale into a crushing kiss. "Lesssss talking, more fucking please,” he said, nibbling at Aziraphale’s lip and following up with a flick of his tongue.

"Now, now. Who was in charge here again?" Aziraphale gave a sharp tug of Crowley's hair and tilted his head back to expose the long line of his throat just in time to catch his answering moan with a sharp nip against his Adam's apple. “If my eyes do not deceive me, only one of us is presently in the nude and it certainly isn’t me.”

A cool breeze came out of nowhere and set Crowley to squirming, his bare legs sliding up over Aziraphale’s trousers with a soft whisper of sound. 

“Do you agree, my love? Am I in charge?”

The both of them shivered in delight as Crowley gasped out, "You are, Principality!"

Aziraphale wriggled contentedly, nibbling and licking his way to Crowley's ear. "Then please see fit to tell me what you want you want me to do to you, Crowley. Use your words."

A rising whine and white-knuckled hands clutching at his waistcoat and shirt were the only response for a long moment.

"Fuck me, Aziraphale. _Please_ fuck me."

“Well, since you did say please--”

Aziraphale didn’t bother to be gentle as he slipped arms around Crowley, bodily flipping him so his chest was forced into the back of the couch and his back--his delicious, arching, marked back--was easily gathered to press against Aziraphale’s chest. There weren’t many times in his long life on earth that Aziraphale had indulged his strength in this manner, and he was starting to see the appeal (and least when it came to this particular pursuit).

Crowley, to his credit, was encouraging his actions with gusto, making all sorts of desperate anticipatory sounds and sliding his knees apart on the seat cushions, arms flung over the back of the couch and looking positively wanton.

A firm hand planted between Crowley’s shoulderblades anchored him in place and let Aziraphale lean back to examine his previous work.

Though they had control over such simple things as healing their earthly bodies, Crowley had been content to let things happen at a more natural speed when it came to the injuries he sustained in his little red room. It had only been a few days and the whip-strikes were still red and raised. The singe of holy fire had faded away as his skin had knitted itself back together and the mottled bruising scattered across Crowley’s torso and legs shifted from purples and reds to yellows and greens around the edges.

Aziraphale kept his hand at its anchor-point, a wide spread of fingers that spanned nearly half Crowley’s narrow back and ran his free hand down Crowley’s side, eliciting a shiver from him but no other movement.

“I will never tire of telling you that you are so beautiful, my dove. Look at all you’ve let me do, everything you’ve taken so well for me.” He pressed on a stray bruise, shivering himself at the responding whine and the way Crowley arched not away from the dull pain but towards it. He skipped from bruise to bruise, sometimes whisking them away with a touch, sometimes thumbing into them to be certain they’d last. “Would you do something for me now if I asked it?”

“Maybe,” Crowley said, but the raw shudder and the way he hung his head very clearly said yes.

Aziraphale eased up slightly on the hand keeping Crowley pinned. “Show me your wings,” he said softly, and was thrilled when Crowley not only failed to protest, but simply let them unfurl--one before the other--into a broad inky span that faintly shivered when he leaned down to press a kiss into the feathers.

He moved his mouth over their soft edges, breath whispering along Crowley’s feathers. As he rose, Aziraphale freed himself from his trousers and rested the heat of his cock against Crowey’s cleft. He caught the trailing edges of Crowley’s wings and gave them a light stroke that ended in a tug. Would Crowley like it if he pinned them back in a session? Or clipped his primaries like a caged bird?

Beneath him, Crowley hissed in pleasure and that would be his answer, it seemed. “The mark on your side is healing slower than the rest,” Aziraphale noted aloud. He gripped the base of both Crowley’s wings with a single hand and Crowley stretched them high, tips fluttering and trembling. “I love seeing it still so dark upon you, but perhaps I overdid it?”

“No, Principality. I’m--,” Crowley’s hips squirmed, trying to entice Aziraphale into penetrating him. “I’m letting it scar.”

Surely Crowley could feel the way his grip tightened at that, black feathers bleeding through his fingers. He was sure he hadn't said anything, never put words to his silent wanting, but here Crowley was gifting him exactly what he'd been unable to stop thinking about: A permanent mark made by his hands, a reminder of the things they had done-- _could do_ \--together.

The brush of his broad hand up Crowley's side gained new reverence, tracing across the dark line with a touch as light as air while his other hand remained buried in a tight grip of feathers. "Oh darling, what a gift you are giving me." Aziraphale's voice was hushed, as light as the trace of his fingertips, just as awed.

He let his hand slip lower, palming Crowley's buttock and slipping a thumb between the cheeks, parting them to press against the ring of muscle below where his own cock lay. "Gifts should always be reciprocated, and you have been so very good for me. It's only fair I give you what you've asked so nicely for."

The answering whine from Crowley was all Aziraphale needed. A small miracle introduced some slickness, soft fragrant oil coating the pad of Aziraphale’s thumb. He teased Crowley open with the slowness and care he would grant a human lover, exploring the ways in which Crowley responded to his touch and the slick glide of his fingers.

Much like when they were together in the dungeon, it was easy to lose track of time. Aziraphale luxuriated in gifting pleasure where so often he sought it for himself and where Crowley so often shunned it. He let his joy, his delight, his _lust_ wash over Crowley, working him gently with hands and words for as long as he could resist indulging his own desires.

Finally slipping into the heat of Crowley's body was more exquisite than he could have anticipated. A surge of power crackled through the nerves of his physical form as his own wings manifested and he leaned forward to lay them over Crowley's own dark wingspan, trembling with overstimulation and anticipation.

Aziraphale could practically taste Crowley's emotions, barriers crumbling as their thoughts and desires mingled and _oh_ , this was so much, much deeper and stronger than he had ever realised--the joy and gratitude and _love_ here, so much love…. Aziraphale’s wings blazed brighter, and he curled his arms tight around Crowley in an all-encompassing embrace to feel that love surge stronger and pour into him. They moved together like one now, perfectly aligned, both of them yearning for that beautiful moment of completion. And as it swept them up, carried them together towards bliss, Aziraphale recognized that there was yet more love still waiting for him, a vast and infinite sea of it nestled in the very core of Crowley’s being, and he was certain he could reach it if he stretched his essence just a little farther--

*

Click. Screech. Frown. “So, you’ve been discorporated. You dummy.”

The rest of the video didn't bother playing as a slightly-too-small school desk was hurled through the screen with a scream.

*

The light around Aziraphale was quite a bit brighter than the blaze of his wings had been even at the peak of things, and he blinked as he got his bearings. Something felt different. Rather a lot like when Shadwell had--

Oh, no.

“Aziraphale!” Gabriel boomed, striding purposefully his way with a file folder in hand. Sandalphon was, as always, close at his heels. He stopped a few paces away and pulled a face, glancing down at Aziraphale’s form.

“Please, Lord, let me not be naked,” Aziraphale prayed under his breath. He peered down and was thankfully fully clothed, returned to the same outfit as when last he’d arrived in Heaven.

“I still think you ought to lose the gut, soldier,” Gabriel said, giving Aziraphale’s belly a whap with the folder. “But I am _very_ glad to see you back doing the Lord’s work again, and that you’ve...hardened up a bit. Stellar performance these past few weeks. Just outstanding. This last battle with um-- What’s his name again?”

“Crowley,” Sandalphon supplied.

“Right. Whatever. This latest clash with Cruelly may have ended in a draw, but our Faith in you Aziraphale is…. Okay, maybe not entirely renewed. _However,_ this puts you firmly on the right track for your Performance Improvement Penance.”

“I, um--” Aziraphale wrung his hands together and prayed further that nobody had reviewed his miracle logs. “Thank you?”

Gabriel’s broad smile was all teeth. “We’re all rooting for you,” he said, and tucked the folder under his arm to deliver a round of applause. “Isn’t that right, everyone?”

The clapping of a few million angels behind him was terribly loud.

“Management understands that the whole business with the apocalypse was a minor rebellion, and that based on these smitings, you _might_ be the kind of angel who needs a little less oversight to reach maximum efficiency. Rather like Sandalphon, here.”

Sandalphon’s grin was also all teeth.

Where once Aziraphale might have glanced away, he now sought to match it with his own vicious smile. “Oh, yes,” he said, “the less oversight the better. Shall I carry on as I have been then? I imagine Hell won’t stop sending the demon Crowley back. There’s loads of thwarting to be done. In fact, best not review the logs, because what Heaven doesn’t know….” He tipped his head as if to intimate the holy wrath just waiting to be delivered unto any demon who crossed his path.

“I’m picking up what you’re laying down,” Gabriel said, and gave him a slow exaggerated wink. “Sandalphon, make a note to send those logs straight into the holy paper shredder.”

“Noted, sir. But shouldn’t we--”

“Shut up, Sandalphon,” Gabriel said, never taking his eyes away from Aziraphale. “Now, former Angel of the Eastern Gate, go grab yourself a fresh body and then it’s back to the front lines with you. Pip pip, soldier. Give that foul creature everything you’ve got.”

Aziraphale knocked off a somewhat sloppy salute and began to back away. “Oh, I certainly will. You can count on that.”

“There goes a legend in the making, Sandalphon. We could all learn a thing or two from him.”

“If you say so, sir.”

*

A stirring of dark soil rises up to meet a flash of lightning in an empty corner of St James’ park. Collars are straightened, glasses summoned, and two beings begin a quiet walk home through the evening calm.

“So who’s coming out on top next time?”

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this fic, you might like [some of the other fics we've written](https://archiveofourown.org/works?utf8=%E2%9C%93&commit=Sort+and+Filter&work_search%5Bsort_column%5D=revised_at&include_work_search%5Bfandom_ids%5D%5B%5D=27251507&work_search%5Bother_tag_names%5D=&work_search%5Bexcluded_tag_names%5D=Digital+Art&work_search%5Bcrossover%5D=&work_search%5Bcomplete%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_from%5D=&work_search%5Bwords_to%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_from%5D=&work_search%5Bdate_to%5D=&work_search%5Bquery%5D=&work_search%5Blanguage_id%5D=&user_id=ponderosa121) in this fandom! Also, please feel free to come yell at us on Twitter about these two being bad at bdsm. [@ponderosa121](https://twitter.com/ponderosa121) & [@grimdarkfandang](https://twitter.com/grimdarkfandang/)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[podfic] a fair crack of the whip](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695096) by [Quefish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quefish/pseuds/Quefish)




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